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II
Henrietta got the Delage out from the garage in the Mews and, after a wholly technical
conversation with her friend Albert, who looked after the Delage’s health, she started off.
“Running a treat, miss,” said Albert.
Henrietta smiled. She shot away down the Mews, savouring the unfailing pleasure she always
felt when setting off in the car alone. She much preferred to be alone when driving. In that way she
could realize to the full the intimate personal enjoyment that driving a car brought to her.
She enjoyed her own skill in traffic, she enjoyed nosing out new shortcuts out of London. She
had routes of her own and when driving in London itself had as intimate a knowledge of its streets
as any taxi driver.
She took now her own newly discovered way southwest, turning and twisting through intricate
mazes of suburban streets.
When she came finally to the long ridge of Shovel Down it was half past twelve. Henrietta had
always loved the view from that particular place. She paused now just at the point where the road
began to descend. All around and below her were trees, trees whose leaves were turning from gold
to brown. It was a world incredibly golden and splendid in the strong autumn sunlight.
Henrietta thought: “I love autumn. It’s so much richer than spring.”
And suddenly one of those moments of intense happiness came to her—a sense of the loveliness
of the world—of her own intense enjoyment of that world.
She thought: “I shall never be as happy again as I am now—never.”
She stayed there a minute, gazing out over that golden world that seemed to swim and dissolve
into itself, hazy and blurred with its own beauty.
Then she came down over the crest of the hill, down through the woods, down the long steep
road to The Hollow.
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